Take Your Cripple to Work Day
by c7a8t9
Summary: Wilson and Cuddy craft a brilliant plot to get revenge on House after he fakes brain cancer. Read to discover what they plan, and how House tries to defy their plans. HW friendship, lots of humor. Now, with chapter 20, the story is complete.
1. Chapter 1:The Plan

**A/N: This first chapter is what I think Wilson was doing while the credits rolled on the episode where House faked brain cancer. The rest of the story is a carefully executed revenge plot. I don't own House, please R+R, thanks for reading, and enjoy.**

**Chapter 1: The Plan**

"He faked it."

James Wilson stormed into the Dean of Medicine's office. "He faked having brain cancer. He faked dying. That trial in Boston wasn't to treat the cancer; it was to treat depression in cancer patients. They were going to stimulate the pleasure center of his brain. So he faked it. The whole thing was a lie."

"He faked _cancer_ to get_ high_!" Cuddy exclaimed, starting out of her chair, ready to go kill House that instant.

"Yeah. That's all this was. He put us through all the stress and sadness. Do you know how much time Cameron, Foreman and Chase spent in the lab, running tests and researching clinical trials? We all offered condolences, and what did he do? He pushed us away, because he knew how mad we were going to be when we found out this was about drugs. It's so insane, so cheap, so low, so _House_." said Wilson, angrily, "I don't even...I have so many patients who actually _are_ dying who would give the world to trade lives with him. They'd even trade for just the _friends_ he's got. Doesn't he get how lucky he is? Doesn't he know how low it is to fake cancer? Doesn't he see how that cheapens the reality of having cancer for all my patients?" Wilson exclaimed, exasperated. "No, of course he doesn't, he's House. It's all about getting what he wants. It's all about pushing it until it breaks." Wilson collapsed into one of Cuddy's chairs, exhausted and deflated.

"How could he possibly have gotten away with this?" Cuddy demanded.

"He used someone else's file. And he just doesn't care. He has no sensitivity, no sympathy. He doesn't get the reality of cancer. He doesn't get the reality of how lucky he is, how many people care. Sometimes I just want to strangle him until he does." Wilson sighed deeply, thinking about all the similar stunts House had pulled over the years.

"So let's do that," Cuddy said. Wilson stared at her, puzzled.

"You're kidding, right? Because as much as I'd love to at times, it would look very bad for the hospital if the world's best diagnostician disappeared and we got indicted."

"That's not what I meant," Cuddy elaborated."You're in the pediatric clinic all day tomorrow, right?"

"Yeah," said Wilson. "I'm mostly seeing brain tumor patients tomorrow. But what does that-"

"We're going to strangle House with a little reality," Cuddy said with a sly smile. Wilson was puzzled for a minute, then her plan became clear. He shook his head in disbelief.

"Are you crazy? That'll never work. Remember what happened the last time we tried to teach him a lesson? And besides, how are you going to get him in there? You know he'd rather give up drugs than spend a day with the cancer kids."

"It'll work," Cuddy assured him, "Remember how well he did with the rape victim? This is just like that. We're not teaching, just exposing him to the right things. And as for getting him in there, we'll just have to make spending the day with you his only option." She smiled at Wilson conspiratorially

"I like the way you think." Wilson said, a smile creeping across his face. Drawing a chair up to Cuddy's desk, they bent their heads together and began to form a plan.


	2. Chapter 2:Entering Through the Back Door

**Chapter 2: Entering Through the Back Door**

The next morning when Gregory House arrived at PPTH, he hobbled out of his car and up the front walk of the hospital. Ten yards from the door he stopped, shocked. The front of the hospital was swarming with security guards. Cuddy walked down the row, instructing them to surround the hospital's doors, and showing them a picture of his face.

House quickly recovered from his shock and - to the best of his crippled ability - dived behind one of the bushes that lined the walk. What was going on? He wondered. Then it dawned on him. The Clinic. He hadn't done any duty in four weeks. Cuddy was probably planning another all-day session for him.

Groaning inwardly, he popped a Vicodin and considered his options. He had no cases and no real excuse to get out of duty. Besides, if he tried to make excuses, Cuddy would just bring up the perjury thing again. Also, if there were guards out here, they were probably inside too. His best bet was to sneak around back, go in through the morgue and take it from there.

Once he had snuck through the back door, House decided to scope out the situation by stealth. He carefully, slowly, and painfully went up the stairs to the lobby. It was swarming with security. Cursing Cuddy under his breath, House continued slowly and painfully, up the stairs to his office. Peeking around the stairwell door, his hopes fell when he saw that his office was also being monitored by security. He was about to give himself up when Wilson happened by.

"House, what are you doing in the stairwell?" Wilson asked.

"Shut up," House whispered harshly. "I don't want them to find me." He gestured to the security guards. "Cuddy's got them everywhere. I had to come in through the morgue."

"Wait, so you came all the way up here from the morgue by way of the stairs?" Wilson said incredulously "How could you possibly do that with your leg?"

"Willpower," House said, as he gulped a handful of Vicodin. "And keep your voice down. I don't want all that effort to go to waste. If they find me I'll be in the clinic all day."

Wilson surveyed House's office.

"Oh boy," he sighed. "You're screwed. She's got them all over the hospital. Outside, lobby, department lounges, cafeteria, every elevator, your office, mine. Must be costing her a fortune. But she's got quite the day planned for you. I heard from a nurse that she's got you booked for five hours in the clinic, two three hour student lectures, and a fund raising dinner." With a groan, House collapsed to the floor. Even Wilson, who knew it was all a ruse, felt sympathetic towards the pathetic figure on the floor.

"I can't do a day as Cuddy's lackey, and I don't want to give her the satisfaction of finding me." House said gruffly "There must be someplace they're not guarding."

Wilson looked at his watch and said, "Well, good luck with that. I have to go. Today's my day in the pediatric clinic."

"Ah, yes," House said. "The Boy Wonder Oncologist doing his heroic duty fighting cancer, surrounded by the poor, darling, tragic cancer kids..." He trailed off, a smile creeping across his face. "Perfect. That's the last place she'll look."

"Whoa. No way. Not happening," Wilson said, catching on to House's idea. "I will not have you torturing little kids with cancer. Good luck with Cuddy, but I've got to go."

"Aww come on!" House pleaded, making a pouty face. "I'll be good, Uncle Jimmy, I promise. Don't you want to show me the joys of working with the little angels?"

"Um, no, not really."

"But it'll be just like Take Your Cripple to Work Day. You'll be educating me on the career opportunities that will be available to me when I grow up."

Wilson's face stayed firm, so House became serious. "Come on, Jimmy. Just stick me in a corner. I can't handle a day being Cuddy's puppet. Do this and I'll -" House searched for something to offer Wilson.

"What? Pay for lunch?" Wilson threw out jokingly. House nodded soberly. "For a week?" Wilson said, testing him. House nodded again. "You promise to behave?" Another nod.

"Fine," Wilson conceded. "But if you do anything- and I mean anything- to bother the patients, I'm calling Cuddy myself. You'd better be good, House."

"Of course I will," House mocked. Wilson glared at him, the force in his eyes wiping the smirk off House's face. "Thanks," House offered, straight-faced.


	3. Chapter 3:Crippled by an IV Pole

**A/N: Thanks for all the great reviews everyone! Here's the next chapter. Enjoy.**

**Chapter 3: Crippled by an IV Pole**

As they headed slowly up the stairs, House wondered why Wilson had given in. He reasoned that Wilson had been willing only because he was actually planning on following through with his threat of calling Cuddy. Figuring he better get it out of his system, he asked off-handedly, "So do we get to tell any toddlers that they're dying today?" Expecting a rise out of Wilson, House was surprised when his friend sighed tiredly and said,

"I don't think the Burkett kid's MRI is back, so we hopefully won't have to tell his mom that the tumor's not responding to treatment anymore." The rest of the way up they were silent. It took a lot longer than usual, since House had to delicately make his way up the stairs and rest at every landing. By the time they reached the top, he had taken at least six Vicodin.

Once they reached the 6th floor, Wilson paused. "Behave," he warned House, then pushed open the door. It revealed a vast waiting area decorated in bright primary colors. Kids with varying stages of hair loss were everywhere, talking, laughing, crying, sleeping. Nurses, doctors, and parents bustled around, pushing IV poles, giving injections, handing out medication, talking to listless, ill-looking kids, and holding vomit buckets. House let out an audible groan. Wilson set off confidently through the mob of patients. Bald heads abounded, and kids rode tricycles and scampered around the chairs, pulling IV poles behind them. House had to dodge several figures that went barreling past him.

"If I get crippled by an IV pole, I'm suing." he muttered to himself. Wilson continued smiling at everyone, patting a head here or there, waving to a parent. A group of children were sitting at an art table in the corner, working busily. As House and Wilson passed, one little girl ran up beside them and yanked on Wilson's lab coat. He quickly bent down and took the crayoned picture she held out to him. It was what House assumed was a picture of her playing outside under a rainbow. It said 'Thank You for Curing Me Dr Wilson" in unevenly scrawled letters. "You're welcome Hannah," Wilson said solemnly, "and thank you for this picture. It's lovely."

"I wanted you to remember me," the girl said shyly.

"That's right," Wilson said, smiling. "Today's your last appointment for a whole year! Now I'll be sure to remember you. You just be sure you don't come back again, okay?" Wilson joked. House realized with a shock that she had hair. She must have been a long term case. The girl left, but Wilson was still kneeling down, looking at the picture. After a long moment, he stood up.

"Let me guess," House snarked, "We're now going to the secret underground vault where Super Oncologist stores the multitudes of presents he has collected from the tumor-ridden rug rats." Wilson said nothing, but he had a smile on his face as he walked off towards his 'underground vault'.


	4. Chapter 4:Death in Primary Colors

**Chapter 4: Death in Primary Colors**

As they approached Wilson's office in the pediatric clinic, House began to whisper in a movie announcer-voice, "We cautiously proceed towards Super Oncologist's lair to stow the valuable Talisman of Rainbows Cures. Around any corner, a villain could be lurking. Death in primary colors, Sue the hospice coordinator, an angry widow, a bald child armed with a syringe. The trip is fraught with perils. But does Super Oncologist shy away? Never! He is relentless in his quest to save the world!" Wilson, who had been pointedly trying to block out House's comments, had to suppress a laugh. He pushed open the door to his pediatric clinic office/exam room, and House forgot what he had been teasing Wilson about.

Two of the walls were entirely covered in pictures of patients. Christmas cards, pictures with Wilson and other doctors, prom pictures, thank-you cards, drawings and craft projects were plastered all over. Wilson headed over to one of the walls, removed a picture of a happy-looking young boy sitting on a play structure, and pinned up Hannah's picture. As he moved to put the boy's picture on the other wall, House spoke up sarcastically,

"So, what, is he getting demoted? Do you rotate the pictures when you stop liking them? Or when they stop liking you?" Wilson said nothing, but House pressed on, drilling the questions mercilessly. " Do you remember every case history? Do you remember every kid's name? Even the ones who-well, you know..." House said, with an exaggerated face of polite embarrassment. He opened his mouth to ask another question, but Wilson cut him off.

"His name was Joey. He had APL. His funeral was three days ago. This wall," Wilson spoke somberly, gesturing to the wall, "is for pictures of kids who have passed away. Any more questions?" he finished harshly. House was silent for a minute. The wall was more than halfway full, and some of the kids were very young.

"Wilson?" House began solemnly

"Yes?" Wilson almost whispered.

"Where's the little boy's room?" House deadpanned. Wilson sighed. "Out the door, right down the hall and three doors down on your left. I'll be in here doing paperwork." House headed out the door without a word, leaving Wilson to stare at the wall.


	5. Chapter 5:The Bathroom Line

**A/N: Thank you all for the wonderful reviews! Sorry for the lag in updates, I've been very busy. Enjoy!**

**Chapter 5: The Bathroom Line**

The single, unisex bathroom was unmistakable because of the line of children waiting outside it holding specimin cups. House groaned and got in line. The kid standing next to him looked up and announced, "Hi, I'm Taylor. What's your name? What happened to your leg? My muscles atrophied because I spent so long in the hospital and the chemo damaged them." It was then that House noticed the walker Taylor leaned on.

House replied sourly, "I talked to strangers too much and one day one of them bit a chunk of muscle out of my leg. How old are you?"

"Eleven," Taylor replied.

"Boy or girl?"

"I'm a girl!" Taylor asserted. "Can't you see my shoes?" House looked down. They were bright pink sneakers.

"Well, these days you never know, " House mocked, "It would help if you had hair. But even then-"

"I do have hair!" Taylor contested "See?" She grabbed House's jacket, pulled him down, and pointed to her head.

"What? Is it invisible?" House rebutted, though he could see the thinnest wisps of hair growing out of her head.

"No it's not invisible," Taylor protested, "it's just thin and very blonde." She sniffed back tears. The last thing House wanted was a crying patient on his hands, because he was sure that would make Wilson call Cuddy, so he quickly replied, "Oh yeah, now I see it. It's, um, nice." Reasonably satisfied, Taylor turned away. When it was her turn she maneuvered herself into the bathroom with the walker. On her way out she whispered to House,

"Watch where you put the cane. It's wet and slippery."

"Thanks," House muttered. He had had quite a few close saves on newly-washed floors in the past. No one who could walk normally would ever think of that.

Returning to Wilson's office, House plopped himself on the exam table and said, "So what do we do now?"

"Well, _I_ have about three minutes before my first patient comes in, which means _you_ have about three minutes to pick a corner to hide in and practice not saying anything." Wilson announced with a pleasant smile.

"Well, " House huffed, "I can see when I'm not wanted. I'd storm out in rage, but Cuddy's probably got the SWAT team on my tail by now. Can I take the southwest facing corner?" House moved a chair over without waiting for Wilson's reply. Wilson turned around to ask how his friend knew which corner was which when the room had no windows, but the look on House's face stopped him on a dime.

House's face was screwed up in immense concentration, like he was straining to stop something from happening; he was holding his breath and his whole face was scrunched up. Wilson just gave him a look, trying hard not to laugh. House let out his breath and explained,

"I was practicing not talking. You wouldn't believe how hard it is." Before Wilson had time to respond, or even laugh, his patient knocked on the door. He got up quickly, and went over to the door. Before he opened it, he paused and turned to House.

"Behave." he warned, with a stern look. House didn't respond, so Wilson took a deep breath and opened the door.


	6. Chapter 6:Zoned Out

**Chapter 6: Zoned Out**

As Wilson talked to the patient, House zoned out. He figured that if he didn't hear anything to comment on, he wouldn't comment, and wouldn't get sent to Cuddy. He wondered how many patients were waiting for Wilson. Knowing his friend, and his caring complex, they would probably be here for a long while. He watched Wilson without really listening to what was coming out of his mouth. While he mocked his sympathetic nature, he was also interested in his relations with his patients.

Wilson was speaking confidently to the patient and the mom, making a joke here or there. This kid must be doing well, thought House. The mom was relaxed, the kid looked healthy, and Wilson seemed comfortable and animated. This was the fun Dr Wilson, not the grief counselor Dr Wilson who got thanked for telling people they were dying. You know, House thought, I haven't had to pay him in a while. Maybe he's losing his touch, or maybe he started feeling guilty about making money off dying people. That was probably it. But in that case, he had a bigger problem: his whole livelihood was making money off dying people.

They had made it over three years ago, and Wilson had made about 150 bucks by House's calculations. What percentage of all of his patients were those fifteen that said thank you? Or even what percentage of the dying ones? House wished he had oncologist stats, so he could understand how often this happened, and how it was even possible. To tell someone that they were going to die, and they said thank you? It couldn't be politeness, because nobody was that polite. Some people would be glad to know what was going on, but it seemed stupid to thank Wilson for doing his job. Maybe it was relief that they didn't have to see him anymore. Yes, that would be it. House smirked, and, looking up, realized a completely different kid was on the exam table now.

Wilson's persona had totally changed. Now he looked quietly determined, focused, like he was preparing to meet a challenge much bigger than he was. He was General Wilson, ready to send the troops in for a last ditch effort and leave no man behind. The idea of Wilson being a general was absurd. The kid on the exam table looked tired and sick, but it was obvious he was bored too. He caught House's eye, and smiled a little bit, partially embarrassed because he had been staring, curious why House was in the room. House began to make silly faces at him behind Wilson's back. He was pretty good at it, and soon the kid was laughing out loud. Wilson noticed and turned quickly to House, who adopted a face of polite obedience. The parents noticed and they and Wilson chuckled just a little bit. The tension in the room was broken.

"Okay, so we're going to do this next chemo and radiation cycle on a different schedule and then re-evaluate." Wilson told the parents, handing them a card. "These are your chemo dates. Do you have any questions, Henry?" Wilson addressed the boy, who shyly shook his head no. "Okay, well, take care of yourself. Take your medicine every day and let your mom know if you have any questions, or if you start to feel better, or sicker, okay?" Henry nodded. House made bunny ears behind Wilson's head, making Henry smile "Okay then, I'll see you later." Wilson said, shaking hands with Henry's parents. As the family left, Henry copied some of House's faces to make his parents laugh. Wilson turned to House and smiled. "Henry hasn't smiled since we started his last cycle of chemo and radiation. He's had all sorts of side effects, and he's been sick as a dog. That was pretty good." House shrugged   
"I was bored of tuning you out, he was bored of listening to you talk about him dying. We made the perfect team. Plus, I have a special breed of child-amusement skills."

"Yeah," Wilson agreed sarcastically, seeing that House wasn't going to take anything seriously. "Seeing as you are a child."

"Hey!" interjected House. "I resent that. Could a kid do this?" he grabbed a yo-yo out of his pocket and began to do a series of complicated tricks.

"If they practiced stupid tricks instead of working the way you do, they could do anything." Wilson started out the door. "Coming?"

"That depends. Where are we going?"

"To the transfusion room. I have to check in with some patients."

"Am I going to have to behave again?"

"Of course. But you'll get to stretch your legs, maybe we can jog there."

"Ha ha. Very funny," House said as he followed Wilson out the door.


	7. Chapter 7: I'm used to gross

**Chapter 7: I'm used to gross**

"Just so you know," Wilson began as he and House headed down the maze of hallways in the clinic to the infusion room, "This is where all the kids get their chemo, blood transfusions, and intravenous meds. Some of them have pretty nasty side effects, so the kids are being monitored. Lots of them won't be feeling too well. Some of them have vomiting, constipation, infections, dressing changes. Others need IVs put in or their urine output monitored. It's," Wilson tried to be delicate, "well, just to warn you, it might be a little, uh, gross."

"Why are you telling me this?" House challenged. "I'm the one who has patients that bleed out of every orifice, vomit blood, pee blood, have body parts explode and turn weird colors on a regular basis. I'm used to gross."

"I don't know. It's a different kind of gross. That's the warning speech I give when I show people around. I try to prepare them for seeing very sick children because it can be difficult to handle. But of course, I forgot, you only feel bad when you have a heart and give a crap. So it was a completely unnecessary warning and you can therefore disregard it."

"Hey!" House retorted. "Words can hurt. How do you know I don't have a heart? Maybe I just don't show my sensitive side, and deep down I really am a lover."

"Yeah," Wilson said, disbelieving. "Sure."

"Well, okay, maybe I'm not, but I bet somewhere in this damn maze of hallways we can find the Wizard of Oz and he can give me a heart. Good Lord, do kids ever get lost in this place?"

"No," Wilson defended. "It's not that complicated. Look, we're here."

They stepped into the infusion room, surveying it. There were two rows of hospital beds on opposite sides of the walls, a couple of cribs, and through a small hallway that had a bathroom in it, a room full of what looked like recliners. Most of the beds and chairs had kids in them. Some had IVs in their arms, some had central lines, and some had ports under their skin that had been accessed by having an IV-type needle put into them. Most of them were resting, watching the TV on the wall, or playing with video game systems on rolling carts. As Wilson had warned, almost all looked wiped out and sick. Here and there the curtain was drawn around the bed, and some of the vomit basins were almost full. Over in one corner, a mom was holding on to a squirming child who was screaming as a nurse tried to put an IV in his arm. His screaming was rather grating, and House groaned. No one else in the room seemed to take offense at the noise. At another bed, a toddler's diaper was being changed and checked for urine output. In the next bed over, a child was whimpering and her mother was saying "It's okay, the procedure will be in about half an hour, then it'll be over and you can have something to eat." The little girl had a large sticker on her chest that said in bright primary colors 'No food for me'.

"Now you're starving kids?" House exclaimed, gesturing to the girl.

"No," Wilson replied. "She's having a bone marrow biopsy later today, so she can't eat because we sedate the kids for it. They can't eat for twelve hours if they are going to have any type of anesthesia"

"Why bother? It doesn't hurt that much, you could do it with them awake."

"Have you ever tried to comfort and restrain a child while shoving a six-inch needle through their pelvis bone? It's difficult for the staff and traumatic for the kids."

"Not as traumatic as being starved by the people that love them." Wilson ignored this comment and went back to trying to locate all the families he needed to talk to. House turned his attention back to the room. Some nurses were administering what he assumed was chemo to a child who was lying, bored, in the bed, doing nothing in particular. What was odd, though, was that the nurses who were hooking his central line up to the medication were wearing heavy-duty latex gloves and blue gowns over their normal clothes.

"What's with the hazmat suits?" House queried.

"It's a safety protocol. The chemo can burn skin and damage cells, so the nurses who administer it have to be protected."

"I love the irony," House remarked, a little too loudly. "I mean, this stuff is far too dangerous to get on the nurse's skin, it could maim them, do all sorts of damage, but here we are pumping it into kids' veins. This stuff," he continued, while the patients listened and Wilson tried to hide his face, "is poison. You give a person too much too fast without supportive care, it'll kill them. What would usually kill is necessary to save your children's life." There was a pause in which Wilson prepared to make all kinds of apologies, explain that House had escaped from the psych ward, and call Cuddy. But then, the entire room burst into laughter. House took a very dramatic bow, but aside to Wilson he said,

"Okay, these people have the worst sense of humor on the planet."

"What else are they supposed to do? They have to laugh or they'd lose it. It's a defense mechanism to stay sane. And you had better be thanking your lucky stars for their sense of humor because without it, you'd be with Cuddy in the clinic." House was about to respond, when a mother, still chuckling a little bit came up and said,

"Dr Wilson, that was the best entertainment you've ever brought in. All the stand-up comics that come always make jokes about the news, pop culture, and stuff on TV. I haven't had time to read a magazine or newspaper, or watch TV in months! All I've been doing is living in the world of cancer and taking care of my daughter. But no one ever wants to make a joke about cancer. They're all so scared of insulting us. But thank you," she said, addressing House, "for not being scared. We all needed a laugh like you wouldn't believe. It's even funnier because we've pointed the same irony out to each other before. Nice to know someone else isn't scared to see it too." House smiled kindly, though he also wanted to laugh.

"Well, you know," he drolled dramatically, "I'm all about pushing the envelope. Glad you appreciated my sense of humor," he said with a pointed look at Wilson. The woman thanked him again and then left. House smirked at Wilson, who had finally found all the patients he needed to see. With House in tow he headed off towards the rows of beds.


	8. Chapter 8:Entitled to Scream

**Chapter 8: Entitled to Scream**

On their way to the first family Wilson had to talk to, they passed the bed of the little boy who was still struggling against the nurses and his mother. The screaming was as grating as ever, and House couldn't stand it. He went over, leaned into the kid's face and said

"It'll hurt even more if you don't shut up!" The young boy was shocked into silence. Wilson hurried over and said,

"Excuse us, please. I'm very sorry, Mrs. Stevens." To House he said, "What the hll do you think you're doing?"

"Shutting that kid up. Doesn't he have the decency to not scream so gratingly? It's an IV, not Chinese water torture." House pointed out. He went to walk away, but Wilson grabbed his arm.

"This is the third time they've had to stick him this week. He's sick, dehydrated, and his central line got infected. He's in the middle of the most intense, severe cycle of chemo and radiation because he has a brain tumor. It's the same kind of tumor you tried to fake. His is smaller, but his prognosis isn't much better and he's only four years old. So I think he's entitled to scream a little, don't you?" Wilson admonished, working to control his anger as he glared at House. He meant business. House looked away and Wilson let go of his arm. They kept walking, pretending nothing had happened, but the unspoken weight of Wilson's outburst hung between them. Wilson generally didn't like to make a scene in front of patients, but House had crossed the line. Obviously he still didn't understand how horrible an experience this was or how much pain he and the nurses had to cause these children- good, sweet kids, all of them- in order to get them well. Wilson marveled at how insensitive his best friend was. He was hoping something he saw today would get the message through to him and show him how glad he should be that he had friends, and had his health. He interrupted his thoughts and began speaking to Mrs. Hanson. Her nine year old son was on his second to last cycle of chemo for Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia. He had a great prognosis, and he had been doing well so far with not too many side effects from the chemo. So he checked in, made sure they were still doing well and congratulated Andrew on having only one cycle to go. Andrew gave him a smile and showed off the peach fuzz that was starting to grow back in on his head.

Next were Mr and Mrs Garrison. Kylee was six and she had Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma. She had been put into remission with chemo fairly quickly, but had relapsed. They were now giving her more powerful chemotherapy, hoping to put her into remission and then give her a bone marrow transplant to cure her. He talked to them about what the schedule would be like for the transplant, and arranged for them to tour the transplant floor and meet a child-life specialist. The pre-transplant medical workup looked good, and the unrelated, anonymous donor was also in excellent health. Medically, she was as ready as she'd ever be. Emotionally, she was having a hard time. Understanding the concept of destroying her bone marrow with chemo and radiation and keeping her in isolation, then giving her someone else's bone marrow and waiting, hoping, and supporting her as the new marrow took hold, fending off all sorts of potential complications, was a hard thing to do. Six is too young to have to worry about these things, Wilson thought for the millionth time. But he sat on the end of Kylee's bed and asked her if she knew what they were planning to do in a couple weeks. She recited the protocol back to him, and he praised her and asked if she had any questions. She asked if her stuffed animals could come with her for the 'bone maawoah twansplent'. Chuckling at her pronunciation, Wilson said that if her mom washed them extra carefully, it was okay that if they came. She smiled happily. Wilson asked for a hug, and she gladly embraced him. He shook hands with her parents and told them he'd see them next week.

House continued to silently observe Wilson's interactions with the patients. He seamlessly transitioned between good cases and bad ones, patients of different ages and genders, and parents of different dispositions. Everyone seemed to like him, all the kids smiled at him, all the parents had a good rapport with him, and the nurses all seemed to be constantly winking at him. He was in his element. This was what he was good at; this was why he did this job. This was definitely not the part of medicine House was good at. He knew that. He was at his best diagnosing- not dealing with the aftermath. He'd make a crappy oncologist, since their job was all about the treatment, the side effects, and taking care of patient's needs. Come to think of it, he'd probably make a really bad cancer patient too. The diagnosis took 30 seconds, but the treatment took years. He had no patience for all the poking, prodding, different medications, side effects, and frequent appointments. Guess it was a good thing I was faking he thought. Wilson had moved on to another bed, so House followed behind, wondering what he would have done if he really had been a patient.


	9. Chapter 9:MakeaWish

**Chapter 9: Make-A-Wish**

House was getting bored. He had been watching Wilson talk to patients for twenty minutes, and it was getting old. He had begun to wonder when lunch was when the boy to whom Wilson was talking started projectile vomiting. Wilson reached for the bucket, but House beat him to it, holding it steady under the kid's head as he emptied his stomach. The boy finished vomiting and fell back onto the bed, crying. His mother stroked his head and murmured softly to him. In a few minutes the boy was asleep, apparently worn out from the effort. His mother looked up at Wilson with tears in her eyes

"I don't know how much more of this he can take. He's had nosebleeds, infections, and horrible nausea. He's so weak I have to carry him sometimes; he's lost almost twenty pounds. He's only thirteen." House was surprised. He would have guessed that the boy in the bed was eight, maybe nine.

"I know," said Wilson. "We're going to try and make this better, I promise." The mother shook her head sadly.

"It'd be one thing if it was just the side effects. But he's been missing school and he's falling behind. He might have to be kept back. His friends are nervous around him and they've almost stopped coming over altogether. He can't play baseball anymore. He loved baseball. It's just the two of us at home, we don't have any family nearby, and it's so hard. Every day he's more listless, more depressed. He's losing his will to live, I can tell." His mother was crying now. Wilson patted her arm.

"Well, what if we have one of our social workers contact the school? They can talk to the teachers about helping Josh keep up, and we can send one out to do a presentation for the kids on Leukemia. That way, they know what's going on, and they have a chance to ask questions. The social worker can talk to you and to Josh so you have an outlet and some comfort. You're doing a great job, by the way, this isn't easy for anyone."

"Thank you, Dr Wilson," the woman sniffed. "I think that would help. I just wish he could play baseball."

"Make-A-Wish," House said. For a second, Wilson thought he was making a cruel joke and wanted to hit him. Then, it dawned on him what House meant.

"Of course," he said to Josh's mom. "We can contact the Make-A-Wish foundation. They grant the wishes of sick kids like Josh. He can wish to go visit his favorite baseball team. They foundation makes all the arrangements and they can get him in the dugout, on the field, whatever he wants."

"They can really do that?" The mom asked, brightening. Wilson nodded. "Oh, Dr. Wilson, that would be wonderful! I'm sure that would cheer him up!" She hugged Dr Wilson, who smiled gratefully at House over her shoulder.

"Okay," Wilson said. "I'll make those phone calls. I'll let the foundation contact you guys. They'll come and ask about his wish, then arrange the whole thing. The social worker will be in contact too." The woman nodded, smiling now. "I'll see you guys next week," Wilson said, standing up and heading off. House followed, Wilson's silent shadow.

"Thanks," Wilson said earnestly to House. "How'd you know about Make-A-Wish?"

"Well, Cuddy told me last week that if I called them, they could get me in her bed." House began. "So I called, but it turns out they only grant wishes for kids, and you have to be actually dying too." Wilson rolled his eyes. "So when's lunch?" House continued "I think we need to get out of here soon. I'm starting to smell like dying kids." Wilson gave him a look, then decided that the answer to his question would punish House enough.

"No time for lunch," Wilson chirped. House's face fell. "On peds clinic days I order up because I don't have enough time to go down to the cafeteria. Don't worry; I took the liberty of getting you a Reuben. We'll go eat in the play room. They've probably delivered the lunches to this floor by now." Wilson looked at his watch, then set off for the play room.


	10. Chapter 10:The Playroom

**Chapter 10: The Playroom**

"The '_play room'_?" House queried as they walked

"It's the entertainment room for the kids. There are toys, a play-scape, crafts, stories, TVs, and video games. Sometimes entertainers come in, and the play lady always has lots of activities planned."

"_Play lady_?"

"Well, her official title is child-life specialist and her name is Lisa. But everyone around here just calls her the play lady since she's in charge of all the fun. Her office is full of DVDs, videos, projects kids have done, and she even has a desk drawer full of candy. She's so great; all the kids love her."

"All this just because they've got cancer," House observed with envy.

"What do you mean 'just because they've got cancer'? They're here fighting for their lives. Do you know how hard this is on them? The playroom is the only place in the clinic where they don't have doctors and nurses poking and prodding them. It's a little space where they can play and be kids, get away from the medicine and the fear and the sickness. It gives them something to look forward to when they come here. Some parents have told me that that's the only way they can get the kids to come willingly. After going through what they go through, they deserve a chance to play."

"Whatever," House said. "I still think you're spoiling them. What happens to the ones who get cured? After this, normal life is going to be a major disappointment."

"Trust me," Wilson said. "Every kid here would rather be living a normal life than spending time here. And I haven't heard from any parents that getting spoiled is an issue post-treatment."

House didn't say anything, because they had arrived at the playroom and he had spotted the cart with the lunches on it. He and Wilson grabbed their food.

"Where do we sit to eat?" House asked

"Right here," Wilson said, gesturing to the kid-sized arts and crafts table. House sighed.

"Not going to happen," he remarked, waving his cane in Wilson's face.

"Oh, right," Wilson sputtered, slightly embarrassed. "Well, just pull over one of the adult chairs." House got one from under the windows and pulled it over. He was too hungry to complain. They dug in, not talking. House looked around the playroom. It was a little unnerving to see toddlers with no hair, but if you ignored that, they were just boring little kids playing. He finished his sandwich and half of Wilson's chips in about 60 seconds, and scanned the room, bored. He spotted a piano in the corner and quickly got up and headed over to it, thinking that this would be a way for him to have fun. He sat down at it, wondering what to play, when the perfect song popped into his head. He began playing, skillfully dancing his fingers over the keys, improvising a bit on the introduction. The kids around looked up from what they were doing. Some began to wiggle and tap their feet.

Over at the table, Wilson looked up when he heard House start playing the piano. He smiled as all the kids started moving to the music. Maybe House should come do some entertaining here, he thought. The song was a rollicking, feel-good tune and Wilson thought he recognized it. As he hummed along and tapped his foot, some of the words came into his head as though he was remembering them from long ago. He was enjoying himself until House began pounding out the chorus with extra feeling. When the lyrics of the chorus began to play in his head, the smile was wiped from his face, and his tapping foot was stopped on a dime. He should have checked to see if any parents were listening, he should have slugged House, but he didn't. All he could do was bury his face in his hands.

Because the song House was pounding out on the keys, the song his young cancer patients were dancing to, the song he had been enjoying until a few seconds ago was Billy Joel's _Only the Good Die Young_.


	11. Chapter 11:At the Piano

**Chapter 11: At the Piano**

House kept right on playing, laughing to himself that none of the kids seemed to have recognized the song. He looked over at Wilson and was satisfied to see that his friend was hiding his face in his hands. He finished up the verse he was on, then stopped so that Wilson wouldn't get too mad. Already planning how he was going to fake innocence, he didn't notice a boy come sidling up to the piano and sit down on the end of the bench.

"Hi," the boy muttered, not making eye contact.

"Hi," House replied, unsure of why the boy was there. The boy looked up at him shyly, then focused on the piano. He began to play a soft, flowing classical piece that House thought he recognized. When he was done, House said nothing, so the boy launched into a rollicking jazz tune. It was interesting and complex. House and the other patients in the room listened quietly. The boy played calmly, almost devoid of emotion, but with great focus. When the song came to an end, the boy looked at House, who stared back, making the boy duck his head. House was about to say something, but a girl in the audience spoke up first.

"That was great, Paul. Did you write that this week?" Paul nodded shyly, looking up. House gave him a curt nod of acknowledgement.

"It's not that great," Paul said haltingly, addressing both House and the girl. "I was in a bad mood this week because my sister got an infection and I had to miss my best friend's birthday party. She has a bone tumor. My sister, that is. So I wrote it in a few hours at the piano on the inpatient floor."

"It's pretty good." House had to allow

"I think it's great," the same girl repeated

"Well, thanks, Meghan." Paul said "How's your brother?"

"Not bad, not good. What about your sister?"

"Pretty much the same. How's your family?"

"Crisis counselors haven't been called in yet," Meghan smiled. "But no one ever talks to me anymore, my dad doesn't talk to anyone, we haven't eaten together in weeks, and I'm barely holding it together in school. I don't know how much more of this I can take. But David's going to oncology camp for a couple weeks, so we'll hopefully get a break in the summer. How're you guys holding up?"

"Susie's last round of chemo shrunk the tumor a lot. She'll be ready for surgery soon, and then it's just maintenance chemo so life will return to kind of normal, I hope. My family never talks anymore either. I never thought I'd miss the nagging and teasing, but I do. My mom and I used to play piano, but I haven't shown her any of the stuff I've written lately. She didn't even notice when I snuck off to write this last one." He gestured to the piano, indicating the last tune he had played.

They carried this conversation on without even noticing House, who had gotten up and begun edging away. He didn't want any crying. Once he left, Meghan and Paul sat together on the bench and began playing upbeat little-kid tunes for the waiting patients. House returned to Wilson, who had removed his face from his hands when House had stopped playing. Noticing the odd expression of curiosity on House's face, he filled him in.

"Paul Samuels, 14 and Meghan Young, 15, the musicians-in-residence of the clinic. Paul's sister has an aggressive osteosarcoma; Meghan's brother has an advanced lymphoma. They both spend a ton of time here because of their sibling's treatment. Most of time, if they're here, they're at the piano. It's been a tough road for both of them. Their families have been turned upside down by this disease and their siblings haven't been doing great. They get neglected, unfortunately, in the midst of everything, they feel like they've been forgotten, and they feel horrible about their siblings. But they hang out together a lot, which means they both have someone to talk to. And they're both great kids. They're always getting stuff for their siblings, playing with them, helping them when they're sick, and helping their moms. But it's tough. Sometimes it's just as hard to be the family member of a cancer patient as it is to be the patient. " Wilson smiled, but House just stared back blankly.

"I was going to ask if there's a soda machine nearby, but thanks for the biographical lecture." Wilson sighed again.

"It's down around the corner, near the nurse's break room. But hurry back because I've got appointments in the conference room soon."

"Ooh, the conference room," House gasped in mock awe, "that should be good." He left Wilson glaring at his retreating back.


	12. Chapter 12:A Changed Man?

**Chapter 12: A Changed Man?**

As House shuffled off to the soda machine, he couldn't help but think that whatever Wilson would be telling the families in the conference room would not be good. He'd be telling them things related to their kid's treatment, which would mean that he would have to be quiet. And they would have to deal with family members. Like those kids from the piano. That kid - what was his name? Peter? PJ? Well, whatever his name was, he was pretty good. He'd probably be better if his parents weren't wasting all their time on their angelic little cancer kid. On the other hand, the neglect and sorrow make good music. The boy was probably better off ignored.

Good thing House didn't really have any family that would be around if he was sick. Well, his parents, but if he'd really been sick, he wouldn't have told them. His dad would probably find a way to make it his fault. His Aunt Sarah, but he hadn't seen her in years. Nope, all he had was Wilson, Cuddy, and the ducklings. But they were more like pesky, nosy neighbors, always nagging, prying, and stealing his Sunday _Times_ too. Should they have even tried to figure out what was going on with him in the first place? No, but they did. They went and ruined his trip to Boston, ruined his chance to be pain-free. Imagine how much better a boss he'd be if he wasn't in pain. What were they thinking? Of course, he'd expect the caring till her eyeballs pop routine from Cameron, and of course Chase the ass-kisser would go along with whatever his 'friend with benefits' wanted. And presumably Foreman was swept along in the Three Musketeers act, or else he was trying to right his guilty conscience from all that car stealing. Without noticing it, House had walked right by the soda machine and ended up by the intake desk where patients checked in.

Turning around, he found the machine and fished the change out of his pocket and bought a Coke. He was really thirsty and drained half the bottle in one gulp. That was the trouble with reubens, and now he would be facing multiple bathroom trips in bathrooms built for four-year-olds. All because of the sandwich Wilson ordered for him.

Wait_. The sandwich Wilson ordered for him._ When did Wilson have time to order it for him? They were together the entire time he had been here, except the bathroom trip. House was pretty sure meal ordering had to take place earlier than his bathroom break. House quickly made his way to the intake desk.

"Hey," he growled to the receptionist, "What time do lunch orders have to be placed so that they come up by noon?"

"Before 10:30," the woman answered shortly. She knew Dr House's reputation and was not in the mood for any of his nonsense. House had already started walking away. How could he have been so stupid? Wilson had known ahead of time that he was coming. He had _planned_ it. Those meddling kids and their darn dog were at it again. He knew they would be mad, and they actually took it better than he expected. Except they hadn't been taking it well. They lured him in, and now here he was. In the pediatric clinic. With Wilson. All day. To learn a _lesson._ To get exposed to humanity, to gain humility, to be changed in whatever moronically optimistic way they had thought of this time.

His first instinct was to get angry, to go on a child tormenting rampage and leave no child's eyes dry. But he still wasn't entirely sure that Cuddy's plans for him were a bluff. And this was the one place where Wilson would react if he crossed a line. Wilson loved these malignancy-marred munchkins. But he couldn't let Wilson get away with it. Maybe the best way to get him back would be to pretend it was working. House smiled. That would be perfect. The shock factor alone would make it all worthwhile.

So with a new spring in his step, House limped back to the playroom, a 'changed' man.


	13. Chapter 13:Faking Compassion

**Chapter 13: Faking Compassion**

"Well, let's get going." House said bouncily as he strode back into the play room. "Lots of dying kids to save, right?"

"Yup" Wilson sighed. To House it might seem like a sarcastic joke, but to him it was a grim reality. They began walking towards the conference rooms.

"Who will we be talking to today?" House asked as Wilson picked up a stack of files from the front desk. Wilson looked up, surprised by the earnest question.

"Well, the Albrights are coming in and I have to tell them that their son needs a bone marrow transplant because his current treatment isn't working. Greg Burkett's MRI did come back so I have to, um, introduce his family to the hospice care counselor."

"Wow, that's the weirdest euphemism for 'Tell him he's dying' I've ever heard. Does that go over well with families? I keep using 'You're dying', but that just feels played out and I was looking for some new material." Wilson gave him a withering glare that asked, _How could you be so cruel?, _and House remembered he was supposed to be full of humility and all that crap.

"But seriously," he said, his voice hushed, his tone somber, "How do you handle that? Do you tell the kid, or do the parents? That's got to be a horrible conversation." Wilson almost fell over. _House was getting it!_ After a moment he recovered, remembering that this was the point of the plan.

"It depends on the wishes of the parents and how long the kid has," House resisted adding 'to live' sarcastically, "and it's never easy. I feel so bad, because we tried so hard, the kids fought so long, and it was all for nothing."

"Not necessarily," House pointed out kindly. "The treatment they get here gives lots of them months, years more than they would have without it." Faking compassion was taking a lot of effort, but the look on Wilson's face was worth it.

"Yeah," Wilson assented, thrown by House's comforting words. As long as House was being compassionate for a minute, he decided to confess: "Sometimes I feel guilty when they thank me. When I tell them they're dying, I'm saying I failed; I broke the promise that I would help make them better. I failed...and they're thanking me."

"Is that why you stopped collecting on our bet?" Wilson nodded sadly. "Well, architects' bridges sometimes fall down too. It's not your fault. They're thanking you more for being their doctor and helping them, and for your compassion, than for the fact they they're dying. I'm glad the bet's off, I was losing a lot of money. You're good at what you do." Wilson smiled. House smiled too, but not because of the joke. He was smiling because Wilson was falling for it hook, line and sinker.


	14. Chapter 14:Misdiagnosis

**Chapter 14: Mis-diagnosis**

As they continued walking, Wilson continued outlining the cases they were facing. "The Fawcetts are coming in and I have to tell them that their daughter has the form of leukemia that's resistant to most chemotherapies, so she'll have to be transferred to the university hospital for a clinical trial. Nathan Young has to be sent to hospice. He has advanced rhabdomyosarcoma. We've kinda been expecting this, poor kid, but he was doing better lately. The Sutherlands are coming in and I have to tell them..." Wilson trailed off and stopped dead in his tracks. It took House a few paces to realize he had stopped.

"What?" House asked "Are you ok? What do you have to tell them?"

"I have to... I have to..." Wilson stammered, shocked, "... tell them that we mis- diagnosed their daughter."

"Are you serious?" House asked, containing his amused glee at the last second, turning it into sympathy.

"Yes," Wilson said, sounding utterly bewildered, "Their daughter, Sarah, came in with a bad bloody nose and lots of bruises. We told them it was ITP and that with some IV Immuno-globulin, she'd be fine in a few weeks. But we did a biopsy to confirm, and it's not ITP. She's Aplastic. Her marrow's almost empty."

"Really?" House said. "Can I see her marrow slides? This is the kind of rarity we usually get upstairs in my office." House perused the slides, intently interested. Wilson, meanwhile, collapsed against the wall, sliding down to sit on the floor.

"How am I supposed to do this? I have to go from telling these parents that their daughter has a curable, not uncommon, not serious, transient condition, to telling them that she has a life-threatening, rare, serious condition with lots of treatment risks and no guarantee of a cure. She has no siblings to be bone marrow donors, so we'll have to do immunosuppression. She'll need transfusions, meds, neutropenic diet..." Wilson sighed and rubbed his face with his hands. Suddenly remembering that he was supposed to be kind and sympathetic, House put down the slides and sat down on the floor next to his friend.

"Just tell them... that their daughter is truly one in a million. That's about the instance of Aplastic anemia in the general population, right?"

"Yeah," Wilson said, chuckling at House's joke in spite of himself

"Look at it this way," House continued, "How is this any different from the 'You're dying' conversation? You're going from treatable, curable, relatively transient condition - the cancer - to life-threatening, incurable, untreatable one - death. If anything, this one's a better conversation. She's got treatment options." Wilson grinned a little. "Refer her to Boston. Mass-General's got a great bone marrow transplant program." Wilson's smiled broadened and he got up, helping House stand too.

"You're right." Wilson admitted. Then he added sarcastically, "I think it's a first for you, in terms of cancer-related issues."

"Well, I'm predicting it will be the first of many." House said smugly as they headed through a door marked Conference Room One.


	15. Chapter 15:Occupied

**Chapter 15: Occupied**

As Wilson slid the sign on the door to the 'occupied' position, House surveyed the room. It was painted a faintly disgusting shade of pink that could only be described as pastel fuchsia. There were two comfy chairs and a couch covered in a beige-gray, tweedy fabric. House chuckled inwardly at the horrible interior decorating. The room also had a wooden end table and child-sized chair and table in the corner. He counted six boxes of tissues. Hanging on one wall was the ever-present Norman Rockwell print of a boy in a doctor's office. House hated that picture. It was a stupid stereotype of doctors and that kid was ugly as sin.

"You can sit there," Wilson said, interrupting his thoughts. He pointed to the corner with the kid's table, where he had pushed one of the comfy chairs. "Just don't talk to the patients," Wilson added pointedly. House said nothing but inside he sighed. It was going to be a long afternoon.

There was a knock.

"Come in," Wilson called. This was the start of a long afternoon of knocks on the door and a parade of people entering and leaving the conference room. First came the Albrights. Their son was about thirteen, so he sat on the couch with his parents as Wilson explained bone marrow transplants. At the exact right moment, a coordinator from the hospital's transplant program came in to talk to them. Mr. and Mrs. Albright seemed relatively calm and very trusting of Wilson. Their son had been in treatment for a while and they were all used to this environment. Next were the Burketts. Greg was just four, so he came over to the little kids table and colored while Wilson slowly explained to his parents that the last MRI had shown that the tumor was continuing to grow despite treatment. He continued, saying that they had given Greg lots of very damaging therapy and that there was a limit to how much he could take, and how many different drugs they had to give him. Slowly and carefully, Wilson worked around to his point: there was no more they could for Greg besides keep him comfortable. With this statement, the tears began. But House wasn't paying attention to them. He was watching Greg color, trying to gauge how much of this he was taking in. Greg had indeed looked up when his mom started crying. He seemed to be listening when Wilson told his parents that he was going to refer Greg to the palliative care service where he could stay outpatient until he really needed close monitoring. Wilson apologized agonizingly, telling them how sorry he was, offering tissues from a strategically placed box. Greg went back to coloring and a representative from the pallative care ward came in to talk to the Burketts.

House couldn't contain his curiosity anymore, so he asked Greg very quietly, "Do you know what they're talking about?"

"Uh huh," Greg nodded. "My medicine isn't killing the cancer anymore."

"Do you know what that means?"

"Um, the cancer's going to keep growing?" Greg tried. "I don't know. Mommy and Dr. Wilson will tell me."

"Ah, I see. Why don't you ask them now?" House prodded mischievously.

"Um, okay," Greg complied. "What does it mean if my cancer isn't going to stop growing?" he asked everyone in the room. Dead silence followed. Wilson looked at Mrs. Burkett who nodded at him through her tears. After a series of deep breaths, Wilson said, "Well, we don't have any more medicines that can stop the cancer from growing, so it's going to keep getting bigger and taking the place where your brain is supposed to be. When it's too big, it will get in the way of your brain working. And when your brain's not working, your body can't either. That's what dying is. But it won't happen for a while, and we'll keep taking care of you so you don't feel too sick." Greg nodded, then went over to get a hug from his mom. She cried and hugged him tight, and he cried too. Mr. Burkett joined them in the hug.

"Mommy, I'm scared," Greg said.

"I know baby, I know. Me too. But it's going to be okay. You're going to be okay." A split second before House made a bluntly mean comment, Wilson gave him a look that could wither a rose on the stem. The palliative care rep had begun talking to the Burketts, who were still locked in a tight embrace. Wilson came over to House and whispered, "Let's give them some space, shall we?" Wordlessly, House got up and left the room with Wilson. As they were leaving, Mrs. Burkett called out, "Thank you, Dr. Wilson,"

Wilson turned and nodded sadly. "I'll be checking in on you guys, okay? Let me know if there's anything I can do." Then he brushed past House, and went back to his sitting place in the hallway.


	16. Chapter 16:You're Dying 101

**Chapter 16: You're Dying 101**

_I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. _The words played over and over in House's head, but he didn't say them. He never said them. His father had forced him to say it far too many times to people he would have rather hit. House looked down on Wilson from where he was standing in the hall. He watched his best friend stare off into space, then shake himself viciously and focus on the other files in his hands. His lips moved silently as he rehearsed what he was going to say. House could tell he hated this. Wilson was all about fixing things, and this was a parade of the things he'd failed to fix. House would hate all this sappy patient interaction if he had to do it. Kids never bugged him as much as adults did, though. You could always tell when a kid was lying. But his job ended with diagnosis. If he could treat, he would, but that was secondary. There was no getting involved in how the patients felt, or how they were coping, or any of that stuff. And this was why. If he did that, he'd turn into Wilson - sitting in the hallway staring off into space - or into Cameron - crying over every patient. If either of them then had to make a decision about these patients, they could never be objective.

But there was something about the caring patients liked. They got the sense that Wilson would do everything he could for them, as a case and as a _person_, and if he couldn't do any more, he'd hold their hands. Dying people's hands were sweaty. House couldn't stand that. Wilson gave a shuddering sigh, stirring House from his thoughts. He went over and sat down next to Wilson, ready to fake some more compassion.

"I could do the next one if you want," he suggested. Wilson chuckled at the absurdity of this suggestion. House had _failed_ the patient-doctor communication course in med school. Most students called it 'You're Dying 101', and that was all House ever said when breaking bad news. Wilson laughed even more, remembering the role-plays they used to do. The professor would praise Wilson and ask him to demonstrate for the class, then rub his temples and count to ten when House took his turn.

"You're kidding, right? You're horrible at this. Do you remember your little issue with You're Dying 101, back in med school?"

"Teach me what I'm supposed to do. You're better at this than that Professor Heinberg was. I'm sure I could learn to fake it." House insisted.

"Well," Wilson began, "when you give them the news, start by talking aboutpositives, then list facts they already know, then move into slightly unpleasant facts, then slowly work around to the bad news. If you do it well, they should be able to see what's coming. It shouldn't shock them. Then, give them a chance to take in the news, even cry a little," (House scrunched up his nose at this) "And then ask if they have questions and outline some positives again. Talk about the quality of life, how well they did, how sorry you are."

"You're right, I could never do that," House assented, looking disgusted. Wilson laughed.

"I'd never trust you to do it right. Besides, these are my patients. I have to see it through."

"Wouldn't expect any less from Super Oncologist." Wilson smiled, then abruptly stood up as the Burketts came out of the conference room. Wilson hugged Mrs. Burkett, shook Mr. Burkett's hand, and ruffled Greg's hair. Once they had left, House and Wilson took up their places in the room again. Just as they settled into place, there was yet another knock.

"Good God, do you have this thing set to one of those automatic sprinkler timers? It's like being back on a military base." Wilson shrugged, said, "I'm a good estimator and not everyone is chronically late like you are. Now be good," He opened the door and ushered the Fawcetts in.

Samantha was nine, almost ten so she sat with her parents as Wilson explained the genetic differences between the types of leukemia and that she had the kind that was resistant to most of the chemotherapies they had available. There was more crying and hugging, then Wilson came to the rescue with tissues and the promise that the university hospital up the road was doing research with new therapies that had been very successful so far. But rather than reassure her, this news made Mrs. Fawcett more scared.

"A clinical trial?" she asked fearfully, "Is that safe? I don't want them experimenting on my daughter."

"Mrs. Fawcett, I promise you, it's very safe. The drugs they are using in these tests have already passed many rounds of testing. The oncology department at the university is one of the premier researchers in your daughter's type of leukemia. This medicine could cure her. We do not have a lot of other options."

"Well I'd like to look at the other options before I sign my daughter off to be a guinea pig!" Mrs. Fawcett was getting worked up.

"I understand, Mrs. Fawcett, but we don't have much time. The next round of trials is starting up soon and there is paperwork that must be filed, we have to talk to your insurance company. This is what is best for your daughter."

"I think I am a much better judge of what is best for my daughter than the oncologist who met her two weeks ago!" Mrs. Fawcett was angry now. Wilson was trying in vain to calm her.

"Of course, yes, I know how you feel ma'am. I can help you explore other options, but I'm sure you'll find that they are not any better than the trials. You have to trust me. I have only your daughter's best interest in mind."

"As do I!" Mrs. Fawcett was on her feet. Wilson's eyes darted around the room. House was having a hard time breathing as he tried to silence his hysterical laughter. Suddenly, Wilson had an idea.

"Mrs. Fawcett, why don't Dr. House and I step into the hall so you and your family can discuss this. We'll give you some space, and then we can talk some more, okay?" Then, without waiting for her answer, Wilson grabbed House's arm and fled into the hall.


	17. Chapter 17:Motivation

**A/N: Thanks to everyone for the wonderful comments, the nice feedback is great! **

**Chapter 17: Motivation**

Wilson paced back and forth in the hall, running his fingers through his hair. House leaned against a wall and watched, mildly amused at seeing Wilson so flustered. Wilson slowed, stopped, then paced again. At one point he stopped so he was facing House. Instantly a light of recognition shone in his eyes. Then he came to his senses, shook himself and kept on pacing. Finally he came over and looked House in the eye.

"House I'm not going to be able to convince them. The mom's scared and overprotective and irrational. This is outside my territory. But you..."

"Oh no," House protested, backing away from Wilson.

"Come on House," Wilson pleaded. "This is your area of expertise. Browbeating scared, dying people and their families into doing what you know is right. Come on, I know you read the studies. They can help her at the university. Just do what you always do. You owe me." House sighed.

"I don't know," he said, with the air of a theatrical diva, "What's my motivation? I can only work up that kind of anti-emotion for my own patients."

"Your motivation is not having me call Cuddy. There's still four hours until the clinic closes. And I saw a news report this morning warning parents about a new strain of warts going around." House's smirk was wiped off his face.

"That's good motivation," he allowed. Wilson nodded, satisfied, and he and House went back into the conference room.

"Hello Mrs. Fawcett," House said politely, "I'm Dr. House. I work with Dr. Wilson."

"Nice to meet you," Mrs. Fawcett stammered.

"Now I assume that you know that your daughter has leukemia. And I assume you know that there are many types of leukemia distinguished by different genetic traits. And I assume you know that through careful testing your daughter has been found to have one of the types that is genetically impervious to most types of chemotherapy. I assume you know that the university hospital is conducting trials of a drug that has proved to be effective in sending your daughter's type of cancer into remission. What I assume you don't know, from your lack of agreement to put your daughter in these trials, is that this is her best chance of... living." It was Wilson's turn to be amused. House was pacing, speaking loudly and directly to the Fawcetts. They looked duly intimidated. "These trials are on their last round of testing before they go to the FDA for approval. They aren't like regular chemotherapies because instead of killing the cells, they shut them down by using enzyme blockers. They have sent about 50 of patients into remission and cured about 30 of those patients. Now those odds sound long, I know. But when you consider that the chemotherapy and radiation regimen currently being used send about 30 of patients into remission and only cure about 5 of those patients, the new drug seems better. It looks still better when you consider that the chemotherapy and radiation regimen would stunt her growth, shut down her reproductive system, put strain on her heart, damage her kidneys, destroy her short-term memory, make her susceptible to dying from an infection or massive internal bleeding, and will make her puke, lose her hair, and just generally look and feel like crap."

"But, I don't think that's really fair..." Mrs. Fawcett began.

"Well, obviously," House agreed. "Oh, I forgot to mention that your insurance might not even pay for your daughter to be tortured by the chemotherapy and radiation. But, thanks to a generous grant, all your medical expenses will be covered by the university if you enter this trial. Now, Dr. Wilson has a consent form here, but if you need more time to think we could give you some space..."

"Oh no, that's not necessary." Mrs. Fawcett assured House. "We'll enroll her in the trial."

"Okay," said Wilson "Here's the form. I have a pen." Mrs. Fawcett signed the form, looking nervously at House, scared he might speak again. Wilson gave them directions to the university so they could begin the work-up. Once they had left, House collapsed into a chair.

"Well, that was mildly amusing."

"I thought it was one of your finest performances." Wilson commented with the air of a theater critic. "Very well balanced, excellent feeling, an honest, compelling delivery, and it achieved the desired result."

"It was exhausting being nice." House complained

"You call that nice?" Wilson asked

"I was trying to use your fool-proof method: positives, known facts, unpleasant facts, bad news, good news, positives."

"I think you were a little heavy with the unpleasant facts," Wilson pointed out.

"Well, the actor must adjust his performance for the individual audience he is performing for." House drolled theatrically. Wilson laughed.

"So true, so true."


	18. Chapter 18:Bravery

**Chapter 18: Bravery**

Another knock sounded and Nathan Young and his mom came in. House watched Nathan sit stoically. He was about 16, tall and skinny. When Wilson said the word hospice, Mrs. Young broke down in tears. Nathan hugged her, emotionless. He shook Wilson's hand and thanked him, and talked maturely to the hospice rep who came in. Wilson backed over to House's corner.

"You know, I think rhabdo definitely does something screwy to the fear center of a kid's brain." House said, "But only when they're terminal. There was that girl with the blood clot, the one Chase made out with, now this kid. Are they researching this?" Wilson shook his head.

"No, House, they already discovered the source of this symptom. It's bravery and courage."

"No, bravery is being willing to look out a 32nd story window when you're afraid of heights. Courage is running into a burning building and saving a puppy. When you get told you're going to die and you don't cry, or even react, there's something wrong with you."

"Why is it so hard for you to accept that they're brave?"

"Because they're not!" House exclaimed a little too loudly. Mrs. Young and Nathan looked up, confused. Wilson apologized.

"Everyone who looks at them thinks they're brave." House continued, whispering now. "But it's an illusion. They just think these kids are brave because they imagine they would go to pieces or not be able to endure having cancer. And no one bothers to show them the truth because it's easier to pity them and raise money off them if they stoically withstand this horrible experience."

"So it's a marketing strategy?" Wilson asked, incredulous, "That's insane."

"Hey I'm not the one fueling it." House accused, "There is nothing special about any of them, except the collections of mutated cells that are trying to take over their bodies."

"How poetic of you House," Wilson commented sarcastically, "But the fact that these kids endure what happens to them during treatment makes them brave. Trust me."

"None of that makes them brave," House dismissed, "It's just needles, medicines, side effects. Millions of people endure similar things for ulcerative colitis but they don't get telethons. None of them have ever experienced muscle death."

"Now you're just pouting." Wilson argued, "I'm sorry that no one ever gave you a telethon for all your pain and suffering. But these kids fight this life-threatening disease with positive attitudes, smiles, and grace. How can you not admire that?"

"Because they're just kids!" House exclaimed. Thankfully, Nathan and his mother had left with the hospice coordinator. Neither had said anything to Wilson, but he didn't notice. "Kids have positive attitudes and smile when they get shot! They don't get that this is a life-threatening illness! You had to explain to that kid what death is! Ignorance and personality disorders are not the same thing as grace. They don't get that this is going to follow them their whole lives, or what the side effects will be. They just bumble through and do whatever their parents tell them to do."

"Greg Burkett is four. No four-year old knows what death is." Wilson protested.

"Then how can they look it in the face with bravery? You can be brave if you don't know what you're being brave about."

"They are brave in the face of the unknown. They are brave in the face of pain." Wilson defended.

"They aren't brave in the face of the unknown, they're ignorant of it. And judging from the amount of crying I heard today, they aren't very brave in the face of pain."

"They show up. They show up and they try, they fight, they get treated. And they like me, and the nurses. We hurt them, we scare them, and they like us."

"They can't do anything besides show up. Their parents can drive, they can't. If they rolled over and refused treatment, their parents would force them into it. Plus, it's basically suicide to not get treated so what choice do they have? It's only bravery if they have a choice." Wilson was angry at his friend's bitterness and refusal to yield his point. He was sick and tired of arguing with House, because it was a long road to no where. He was unshakable from his views. Fortunately, Wilson was saved by a knock on the door. Mr. and Mrs. Sutherland looked very worried as they shuffled into the conference room. Dr. Wilson greeted them warmly and received only wan smiles in return.

"I know you're both probably wondering why I've asked you here," Wilson began, "I know you were just here this morning, and I appreciate you coming back. What I have to tell you is very important. Now I know we told you that we thought your daughter had a condition called Idiopathic Thyrombocytopenia Purpura. To make sure that it was ITP and not another disease, we did a bone marrow biopsy, a test where we take a small amount of marrow out of your daughter's hip and look at it under a microscope. We expected to see fewer platelets than normal, but otherwise a normal marrow. That finding would support the diagnosis of ITP. However, in your daughter's case, we did not find that. What we found was that your daughter's bone marrow is severely lacking in all the types of blood cells, as well as the stem cells in the bone marrow that are in charge of producing blood cells. This finding supports a diagnosis of Aplastic anemia, a bone marrow failure syndrome."

"What does that mean? Is it serious?" Wilson winced. This wasn't going to be easy.

"Think of the bone marrow like a factory," Wilson said "The stem cells produce the blood cells; red cells, platelets, and white blood cells. In Aplastic anemia, the factory workers sort of go on strike. Sometimes there is one specific cause that can be determined, but in many cases we never know what caused it. We have to encourage the factory workers to come back from their strike, because if your daughter's body isn't producing platelets, she can't clot properly and is prone to bleeding. If she has no red cells, oxygen can't be carried to her organs and without white cells she can't fight infection. Fixing what made the factory go on strike is very difficult and while we do it, your daughter is at risk. This is a very serious condition." The Sutherlands had been clinging to Wilson's every word, trying to comprehend. When he stopped speaking, they lost it. Wilson let them mourn for a while, offered tissues and apologized as per his MO.

"She's going to die!" Mrs. Sutherland wailed, "Oh, we should have been more careful, we should have prevented this..." They were impervious to Wilson's calm attempts to reassure them that it wasn't their fault. The sobbing was getting to House. Finally, he stood up and loudly shouted,

"Enough!" Wilson and the Sutherlands looked up, shocked. Wilson made a move to stop House, but he was like a runaway train, though he spoke more softly now "Nothing you or your daughter did caused this. As long as you haven't been forcing her to inhale pesticides or radiating her or letting her eat toxic waste, she probably got a virus that set it off, or there is no real discernible cause. And she is not going to die. The survival rates for Aplastic anemia are almost 80. If you can find a related bone marrow donor, she'll do quite well. Even if you can't, immunosuppressive therapy can be effective. She has lots of treatment options. Dr. Wilson will be able to help you." House promised with compassion in his voice.

This calmed the Sutherlands down considerably, letting Wilson take over again. They talked some more, formed a treatment plan, and left looking as okay as could be expected.


	19. Chapter 19:Ready to Leave

**A/N: Thanks again to everyone for all the great comments! This is the second to last chapter of the story. Enjoy!**

**Chapter 19: Ready to Leave**

Once the Sutherlands were gone, Wilson collapsed into a chair. He took a few deep breaths, then looked up at House.

"Thanks," he said.

"Well you obviously were getting nowhere with shutting them up." House replied callously, but Wilson smiled.

"Yeah, but you didn't just shut them up, you _comforted_ them. You _cared_, or at least you faked it well. Professor Heinberg would have fainted dead away."

"He was 50 when we were in med school. He's got to be dead now." House pointed out. Wilson rolled his eyes, then stood up.

"Well, come on," he said.

"Where are we going? I thought we were done." House whined.

"I have some paperwork to take care of," Wilson said, "And Cuddy and those guards are probably still out there." House groaned and Wilson sighed. They both knew Wilson wasn't going to get anything productive done with House around. "If you're good," Wilson said, "You can just hang out in the waiting area. It's almost 5, most of the other doctors and nurses are gone now. The only patients that are left are the ones that are going to be admitted overnight." House shrugged, then limped off. "Come to my office at about 5:30," Wilson called after him.

House limped aimlessly through the corridors, not really sure where he was going. He ended up back at the transfusion room. Taylor was lying in a bed still, as was the boy who had been screaming earlier. He gave Taylor a noncommittal nod and she smiled and waved. Continuing his wandering, House ended up by the intake desk. He leaned against an out of the way wall and popped a Vicodin as he watched the last of the patients filter out of the clinic. He saw Josh talking to his mom animatedly, miming a baseball swing. The girl who had had the bone marrow biopsy limped out with her mom, holding her sore hip bone. Paul Samuels was carefully coaxing his sister into her coat. He paused to wave to Meghan, who was carrying her sleeping brother. She smiled at Paul and waved.

"E-mail me," she called out.

"I will," he promised. On their way out, House gave them both nods of recognition.

The receptionists at the desk were starting to pack up and head home, and the nurses were separating out the charts of the kids who were coming the next day. The lights in the play room were off, except for one dim lamp that illuminated the play lady's office. House shuffled off towards Wilson's office, hoping his friend was finally ready to leave.


	20. Chapter 20:The End of a Long Day

**A/N: Well, this is the end of the road. I hope you've enjoyed the story, and that you enjoy the ending. Thanks for all the great comments and your loyal readership.**

**Chapter 20: The End of a Long Day**

House barged into Wilson's pediatric clinic office and hopped up on the exam table.

"Done yet?" he asked.

"Almost," came the reply. House sat for a while, twirling his cane, staring at the pictures on Wilson's wall. He hoped most of the kids had had brain tumors that disrupted their motor function because otherwise the art world's future looked bleak. He looked closer at some of the photos and noticed that he recognized some of the kids. He tried to remember which ones he had seen in the course of this long, long day, and which ones just looked like all the other kids with no hair.

Man, it had been a long day. But better than the one he would have spent with Cuddy. That would have felt like several eternities in hell. But Cuddy wouldn't have expected him to learn a lesson. But Wilson was easier to lie to. House scoffed a little, remembering how easily Wilson had bought his fake compassion that afternoon. If they just minded their own business, he wouldn't have to do these things. But they just couldn't mind their business. They just _cared_ too much. They wanted him to _change_, be humble, happy, and sweet. He knew that's what they were going for, even when they tried to hide it. And he knew that wasn't going to change anymore than he was going to learn from these lessons they kept forcing on him. He'd just have to keep faking what he learned, and they'd have to keep faking indifference to whether he learned.

Wilson was scribbling his last few notes in the files on his desk. Scribbling was the right word for it: Wilson truly had the handwriting of a doctor. That messy scrawl was impossible to imitate. Not that House had really tried. If he closed his eyes and scribbled blindly with his left hand, he bet he could forge Wilson's signature accurately. Wilson cleared his desk and looked up.

"What?" he asked House quizzically.

"Want to come over for pizza?" House asked, "I mean, unless you need to get home to your wife, or hooker, or empty hotel room." Wilson looked at House, confused. _Was he making a genuine offer?_ "I'll buy. That was the deal, right?" House added.

Wilson nodded, trying to remain relaxed, but inside he was excited. Something today had gotten to House. The plan had worked. He was asking a friend over for pizza. Sure, they had done this a million times, but House was _reaching out_. "Sure, I'll come," he finally said, trying to sound casual.

"Good," House replied, "I've got a whole season of _New Yankee Workshop _on Tivo. Maybe this'll be the time he finally cuts a limb off." House hopped off the table and led the way to the stairwell that would take them out the back door of the hospital. Chuckling to himself, Wilson flipped off the light and followed his friend out into the evening.

THE

END


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